


Canonization

by agdgoddess



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-16 12:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16086299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agdgoddess/pseuds/agdgoddess
Summary: According to Catholic doctrine, in order to be canonized a saint, one must perform at least two miracles. Connor and Murphy earned the title of Saint in each other's eyes long before the press dubbed them as such...





	Canonization

**Author's Note:**

> Please pay attention to the tags.
> 
> I own nothing, but I do like to play...

**Murphy**

 

 

_Miracle 1_

 

 

Murphy saved Connor's life when they were ten years old and, although it was the first time, it certainly wouldn't be the last. And just like every time since, he'd risked his own life for Connor's without the slightest bit of hesitation.

Connor's impatience meant that, per usual, his brother was struggling to catch up, rusted bike spraying grass and dirt under bald tires as he made his way to their favorite spot. For as much as the fair headed twin asserted himself as the oldest, Murphy was the one who had to dutifully nod to their Ma's yelled command of, "Watch after yer brother!" because Connor always disappeared around the corner before the warning had even formed upon their mother's lips. One of them had to reassure their Ma and it usually fell to him, Murphy's soft smile telling her he had heard, knowing that their wicked ways had her crossing herself and offering up prayers to St. Jude, as her boys were such lost causes. It's not mere coincidence that she took to drinking more once her boys started walking.

It was a glorious spring day, the rain taking a break to let the sun shine against blinding blue sky to make the grass and trees appear an unnatural green, the kind of green that haunted the twins after they moved to America, never to see that hue again until they returned to the land of their birth. Murphy finally saw the rushing river ahead of him, swollen and wild from the incessant spring rains, and laid his bike next to Connor's own on the grass under the massive tree they considered theirs alone, blue eyes scanning the bank for that untamed shock of blond hair.

He called out for Connor, voice barely heard over the roaring water, feet following that of the fresh prints of his brother in the sandy dirt.

Thank the saints above that Connor had worn his favorite red shirt that day, or else Murphy's sharp eyes may have never spotted the flash of color that was his sibling's floating, twisting body. Too far down the river, arms flailing as it took him even further away, causing Murphy's heart to stop, stutter, clench in disbelief. One failed breath and he was on his bike, pedaling over the bumpy ground in desperation to get to Connor, his twin, his world.

He shouted frantically for Connor to hold on, knowing his brother couldn't hear his pleas. Pedaling like his very life depended on it--because it did--he flew downstream past the struggling body. Scrabbling off his bike he launched himself without pause into the frigid, swirling waters towards the opposite bank, desperately trying to place himself in the path of his now rapidly approaching, still twin. The current was merciless, threatening to sweep him down as well and he fought with every fiber of strength to keep his position. Connor's body slammed into his own, lolling head crushing his brother's nose as Murphy's arms wrapped themselves around his middle, legs kicking furiously back to the shore. Fucking ironic it was that Connor had always been the stronger swimmer.

His strength, his breath was leaving him, but the idea of failing, of Connor dying was not an option. His back crashed into a large rock, stopping the momentum of the two boys and Murphy had never been so thankful for such pain in his short life. Sneakered feet fought for some sort of purchase as he clung to Connor's unmoving body, gritting teeth as he used more strength than possible in a skinny child's body to heave them both into the slippery grass and mud of the riverbank, not stopping as he drug the dead weight of his brother out of the water with an inhuman cry of exertion.

Hands slapped unresponsive cheeks, clawing on cold chest, pounding on bony back. Fists rained blows down on lungs that weren't filling with air, tears mingling with the water streaming from dark hair.

Time seemed to stop. Murphy cursed the too cheery sun above, the too loud songs of the birds in the trees nearby, the too enticing melody of the traitorous river behind him.

The rattling, pathetic breath he heard next was the sweetest thing he had ever heard, and ever would. To this day, Connor's rhythmic breathing is his favorite music in the world, the only soothing song he craves on an endless loop.

Coughing and expelling water violently from lungs and stomach, Connor's body twisted as it fought for air, beautiful blue eyes filled with pain and tears as they flew open and fixed upon Murphy's own. Disbelief crossed the features of his too pale face, surprise at seeing his twin, of simply being alive as he croaked out Murphy's name.

Murphy sobbed as he flung himself on top of his brother's body. Clinging desperately to one another, neither contained the strength or the will to move until after sunset, clothes and hair long since dried. Faces remained wet, unending tears of gratitude and love for one another not abating until the silent, somber walk home. They didn't tell their Ma what had happened, knowing it would either result in a drunken binge or harsh punishment or both. Later that night, Connor thanked Murphy, Murphy told him to piss off, that he would have given Connor his own lungs if he could have and they never spoke of it again.

After that, Connor became the epitome of patience and planning--never went ahead of Murphy or let him out of his sight if he could help it. They had almost lost each other, and that was unthinkable. They revolved around one another like satellites, the gravity of their love so ethereal and unique they knew that no one would understand. And they didn't want them to--this bond was theirs and theirs alone. They only belonged to each other and only ever would.

Murphy is his own personal savior, ready then and ready still to lay down his life for Connor. A sacrifice willing to be offered without hesitation upon the altar of immeasurable love for his brother, despite comprehending that no resurrection back to this Earth greets him. A miracle waiting to happen, one in which Connor fervently prays never will.

 

 

_Miracle 2_

 

 

Murphy is his brother's soothsayer, his oracle, a fucking spooky-ass mind reader if Connor's completely honest. The way his twin knows what he needs before even he does is unnerving, even for the eldest. Like the time Connor broke his sunglasses, the pair falling off the top on his golden head as he jaywalked hurriedly, one of the cheap, brittle plastic lenses shattering upon impact with the asphalt, pieces scattering like mirror shards in the crosswalk. Still cursing in French under his breath (it truly is the most beautiful language to swear in) as he walked through the door, he threw his keys and the useless pair across the cluttered table before grabbing a beer from the fridge, opening it as he sat with an annoyed huff. He heard Murphy come up from behind him and was startled by a black object being thrown in his lap. The sharp crack of another beer echoed through the loft as he realized he held a pair of new sunglasses almost identical to that of the pair he'd just broken. Tilted head, quirked eyebrow begging the question of how as Murphy answered with a smug smirk, leaning too fucking nonchalantly against the white door of their small, ancient fridge. The little shit looked far too self-satisfied for Connor's liking, but fuck if he didn't deserve to be. Beyond impressed, but Connor refused to ask and Murphy never told him how. It was just another one of those freaky mysteries--burning bushes, oil lasting eight days instead of one, cold medicine appearing before Connor even began to show symptoms, favorite noodles wordlessly ordered in after he craved them all damn day, TV turned to an old Eastwood flick neither of them had any way of knowing was airing. But, of course, Murph knew. That fucker always simply _knew_. Now, if only his twin could also turn water to whiskey--talk about miraculous.

Murphy proves his uncanny abilities during their new occupation, striking down those who have grossly offended God and his inalienable laws. Seamlessly offering Connor two loaded clips before the eldest shot the few remaining bullets in his Berettas, somehow counting his brother's shots along with own and knowing when he was low. Wordlessly handing over the bottle of ammonia to taint the red evidence they leave splattered on various surfaces as they pay the blood price for their anointed mission. Slick hands shaking from adrenaline and fear as he tenderly inspects wounds Connor himself wasn't even aware were there. Murphy told him once that he could actually feel his brother's injuries in his own flesh, acute and searing, as real as if he was the one bleeding. And apparently always had, the youngest's own balls aching for hours after that dirty bitch had kicked Connor squarely in the nuts.

It was the same all their years growing up together. The dark haired twin handing him the exact color crayon he wanted to use next. Being yanked harshly off the side of the country road only to have a car careening wildly around the bend less than 20 seconds later, roaring over the patch of gravel where Connor walked moments prior. Laying out the very shirt that the eldest was pondering to borrow from his brother to wear that day to school.

Most important of all, that first ardent, consuming kiss forever branded into his soul was initiated by Murphy--his dear brother who was all agitated action, decisive in his impulses and everything that logical, planning Connor was not.

It's not that Murphy was braver or wanted it more, because Christ knows how badly Connor coveted it, how long he'd yearned for that precise moment between them. The youngest understood that, no matter what, Connor always considered himself the big brother. He was the protector, not the instigator, and the last thing he ever wanted to do was take advantage. No. Murphy had to be the one to close that terrifying distance, take that leap, condemn them both that first time because the eldest's guilt would have not only tarnished it, but would have also eaten him alive. Ever since, Connor initiates it as frequently, if not more often, as his twin. But crossing that sharply defined boundary of no return was a beautiful, blessed burden that Murphy happily carried simply because he knew Connor needed him to do so.

Yes, it's nearly impossible to surprise Connor anymore, but, somehow, Murphy still manages to know what he wants before he himself realizes. Faster or slower. Giving or receiving. Hands or mouth. To take charge or to submit. Even now, as their panting slowly steadies and the sweat is still cooling upon flushed skin, Murphy wordlessly hands over a lit cigarette before the craving even formulated itself into a coherent thought in Connor's pleasure soaked, addled brain, and such simple words as happiness or content or love can hardly do justice to what he's currently feeling.

Connor understands that what he has with Murphy is beyond rare and considers himself lucky beyond belief to share such an otherworldly connection with his lover and his brother. God, for whatever divine reason, saw fit to gift them to each other from the moment of their creation, infinitely entwined, forever filling in the empty spaces of the other. He doesn't deserve Murphy's love or devotion but he never takes for granted the fact that he's had his everything here--by his side, in his heart and head and body--for his entire life and that is a marvelous wonder.

 

 

_Miracle 3_

 

 

Murphy doesn't mind the taste of come. After he's brought Connor to the unimaginable heights of heaven, he brings his coated digits to his alluring mouth and licks them clean, using the flat of his tongue to catch the dribbles of it, eyes closed as though in prayer while smiling angelically. Connor feels holy, worshiped as Murphy takes the essence of everything that he is into himself as if it's his own sacred Eucharist. He doesn't feel remotely worthy of such utter and fanatical fervor.

When it's Connor's fist around his brother, covered in his pearly, sticky release, Murphy doesn't hesitate to cleanse his own come. Maybe he does it because, to him, it's as though by tasting himself, he's also tasting Connor, knowing in his heart that they are merely one soul divided into two bodies. Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood. Come of my come.

Or maybe he simply does it because he knows it drives his brother insane with disastrous desire on a level Connor never knew existed. Those darkened, wicked eyes never leaving his own, the sinfully hollowed cheeks as Murphy takes each finger into the wet, sacred cave of his mouth and lewdly sucks it clean. He always saves Connor's trigger finger for last, reverently tracing each inked letter of Veritas with the tip of his tongue before swallowing around the whole digit. Connor lets the expletive exaltations fly, his breathy benedictions swirling around them as Murphy's tongue shamelessly swirls around his skin, making him strain and ache with the need for release. He feels as if he'll die without it, a willing martyr about to be ripped to shreds by the merciless lions of desire roaring through his body.

If he's already had his consecrated completion, the feel, the sound, the fucking sight of Murphy cleaning himself off of Connor's hand is usually enough to make the blood still singing its way sweetly through his veins go straight back. Sometimes he welcomes it wholeheartedly, lets his brother take his time, eager for a second sacrosanct service where he can prove his dedication, his fidelity, his passion for the only thing on God's green earth that's ever mattered to him. Other times he's too spent or sore or sensitive, so the eldest closes his eyes to shield himself from the gloriously dirty vision before him, tugging his fingers out of Murphy's greedy mouth before they are completely cleansed. Murphy just smirks knowingly, and makes his way slowly back up to his brother's gasping mouth, kissing him deeply so Connor can taste what he caused to come forth from his other half. Those kisses are cherished, almost as satisfying as a second round.

Murphy's tongue and mouth on his hands and fingers are a religious experience, and that is merely the opening hymn. That zealous mouth marking all of Connor's unworthy, tanned skin, laving, devouring, tasting always with a gluttonous desire beyond Dante's comprehension--Connor's own paradise gained, never to be lost. The two of them can speak in tongues, but Murphy's oral ministrations are a distinct and devious language all its own and Connor possesses the only interpretative Rosetta stone engraved in his skin, bones, muscles, nerves--all quivering under his twin's expertise.

And that is just upon his undeserving skin. The very same upon his cock is so--holy fucking fuck. Baptism. Inferno. Rebirth. Eternal salvation or damnation--Connor doesn't give a shit which. Licking, sucking, swallowing, sinful humming heat making Connor ready to drown in a lake of hellfire for eternity as long as he never has to give this up. He considers it a private, perfect phenomenon--he'll gladly gut any other man or woman Murphy's mouth touches. The Almighty himself had to be the one to bestow such raw, rapturous talent but Murphy's lips, tongue, teeth, mouth belong to him and him alone. His infinite high, his righteous bliss, Connor's absolutely breathtaking miracle.

 

 

** Connor **

 

 

_Miracle 1_

 

__

 

There's a reason that if anyone goes too far in making fun of Doc about his stutter, the twins simply don't tolerate it. Sure, they themselves take the piss in an affectionate way because that's how they are--they tease the ones they care about. They love Doc and make light of his stutter because they know it doesn't define him. Just as they didn't let it define Murphy growing up.

Connor spoke first, picking up sounds and stringing them together easily to form words and, soon after, complete sentences in English and Gaelic alike. He chatted away in happy confidence, charming those around him from the very start. His mother often said he had too much of the gift of gab in him.

Unlike Murphy. He preferred to listen, barely babbling as a babe, content to let his brother make enough nonsensical noises for the both of them, which Connor most certainly did. As a toddler, Annabelle would try to coax him into repeating simple words his twin had already mastered, but he remained stubbornly silent, understanding perfectly well what each word meant but still refusing to open his mouth. She didn't try to force him into speaking like Connor spoke, knowing full well her boys were like the color of their contrasting hair--individual and unique and she tried her hardest to treat them as such. She interpreted his non-verbal cues and expressions almost as well as Connor did and it worked for the tiny family.

As the boys grew older and more extensive communication was necessary to convey increasingly complex thoughts, Murphy took to whispering into his brother's ear so Connor could then convey his message to the listener. No one thought it that unusual. Most of those around them were used to Murphy's quietness versus Connor's verbal prowess, not to mention the sacred bond that had developed between the two. If anyone did think it strange, one look at the withering glare upon their mother's face was enough to swiftly change their mind.

It's a deep-seated habit that Murphy occasionally reverts back to, whispering dirty thoughts and devoted endearments alike into Connor's ear, that sweet, warm breath making him shudder almost as much as the words do.

The twins got away with this method of communicating at school for the first year. They both received high marks and most of the nuns didn't mind this little quirk of theirs, that is until a young nun arrived from Dublin with new, fancy ideas about education. Sister Brigid wanted to put Murphy in a special class, as she assumed he's slow witted and would fare better surrounded by students more like him. This unthinkable threat to separate them transformed the brothers feral--hissing, clawing, spitting, inhuman yowls filled with heart-wrenching pain and despair. As much as their Ma respected the Catholic Church and their teaching methods, she threw a fit almost as wild as her sons', knowing that her boys would shut down and almost cease to exist without one another. The Mother Superior finally relented, saying Murphy could stay in his current class but would have to start speaking and participating in class himself and could no longer use his brother as his messenger.

Murphy struggled that year, withdrawing into himself even more, becoming paler, thinner with his inner shine dulling by the day. The more he pulled back, the more Sister Brigid insisted he try, forcing him to expose his shy stutter to the cruel snickers and snide remarks of his classmates. Connor angrily confronted the boys on the playground about their teasing, Murphy joining in after his brother threw the first punch, his flying fists conveying more than his halting words ever could. After many scrapes, bruises and black eyes, the other boys kept their comments and laughs to themselves, but it didn't alleviate Murphy's--and therefore Connor's--suffering while trying to speak in class. Their marks went down as their unruly behavior increased. The last day of second year, Connor stared straight into Sister Brigid's eyes and told her calmly to fuck off, grasped his twin's hand and they walked proudly out together, Murphy throwing her the finger silently over his shoulder.

That year, the only thing Murphy learned was that he could survive anything as long as Connor was by his side. That year, the only thing Connor learned was what it meant to truly hate.

A language course was required for all students the next year. Murphy had been beyond anxious, terrified of the prospect of being forced to speak aloud even more than the last year, and in a new language no less. Latin, of course, as Catholics cannot help but be slaves to tradition. But, as it turned out, mastering that dead language proved immeasurably helpful as a foundation in conquering other romance languages in the future. Those damn penguins were smarter than they appeared sometimes.

Sitting behind his twin as to be able to whisper words of encouragement, Connor's own heart ached--Murphy's trepidation was palpable as he fumbled over the beginner conjugations, hesitant voice joining those of his classmates as they recited out loud all together. After a few weeks a shift occurred, the dark haired twin's voice becoming increasingly stronger, tongue smoother and more assured, until one day he actually raised his hand and voluntarily completed the oral exercise almost perfectly. Connor was shocked and amazed and full of adoration. After school he pulled his brother into the fiercest hug of their lives, murmuring words of praise and affection until a blushing Murphy pushed him away with a roll of his eyes and a huff. But the pride in his dancing eyes matched that in Connor's, and he linked their arms together, walking home in silence with matching, goofy grins.

As soon as he noticed the difference, Connor went to see the Mother Superior, begging her to place them in another language class that year. And so it went year after year, so that by the time that they both entered secondary school, they were taking three language courses each year. Truth be told, the eldest would have preferred to study more Maths or Sciences electives, but he also relished being able to communicate in so many ways with Murphy, adding another language to the arsenal they were beginning to accrue. He even found them a tutor so they could learn Italian, as it was not an offered course. Three times a week after school, they met with the daughter of the surly, grizzled Italian butcher. It meant that Connor couldn't play team sports but he barely batted an eye at the sacrifice.

Connor mastered it through repetition and memorization. Murphy had a natural ear, mouth and brain for it, excelling, ocean eyes sparkling with pride and self-worth with each correct conjugation upon his smooth, lilting tongue. Murphy began to flourish in school, filled with a confidence and radiance that Connor had always seen, had known was there from the very start.

He and his brother always tell those who inquire about how they are so fluent in so many languages that their Ma insisted on it. Murphy allows the lie, but knows it's all because of Connor's love and loyalty to him, incessantly putting the needs of his younger twin ahead of his own.

Connor made Murphy see that it didn't define who he was and actually made him better, made him closer to being a disciple. He can speak in tongues, together with Connor sharing their truths so that either all or none around them understand. Whether he's being polite or threatening, speaking softly or gregariously, it is with a fluid assurance Murphy never thought possible as a child. It's miraculous to be sure, and he only has his saint of a brother to thank.

 

 

_Miracle 2_

 

 

Murphy believes with absolute certainty that his brother is going to heaven. His own status in where he will end up when he dies is questionable at best--he's almost positive that purgatory is as good as he can hope for compared to Connor, because the fact is that Murphy has always considered his brother to be his angel, and his alone.

Everyone constantly says that Murphy is the crazy one, impetuous, compulsive, quick to angry actions and words that would make even their Ma faint in disbelief. Connor talks him down the only way he can, soothing him with touch and skin and whispered words only the two of them are privy to. Yes, Murphy is well aware he is the brash twin.

However, the vast, vast majority of those they know have never witnessed Connor's reaction when Murphy is in danger. And they should consider themselves lucky to never have been in that situation because they would have found themselves in a coma at the very least. Given their new, holy calling, it's infinitely more likely they would end up with pennies placed upon their lifeless eyes. Connor prefers the finality of firearms over fists these days, especially when it comes to ensuring his brother leaves intact, unharmed, fucking alive.

The way that Connor protects him is dangerous, insane even, not giving one flying fuck for the consequences as long as Murphy is safe. He's as fierce as a mother bear protecting her cub, but even more feral and lethal. It's as if Connor's very existence depends on Murphy being whole.

They'd always known that they would go to extreme lengths to protect one another, unquestionably had each other's back in bar fights and against bullies. But that fateful, fucked up day those fucked up Russians had burst their way through their door changed everything.

It's not that Murphy lost his faith as that fat, bald fuck marched him down the stairs that his brother would find a way to save him. Again, the youngest considered Connor to be his personal celestial guardian, blonde hair always catching the light like a goddamn halo from a medieval painting, blue eyes too expressive and ethereal to be merely human.

Nevertheless, just in case, he said goodbye with his eyes, and saw Connor's untamed agony at the prospect, refusing to return the farewell. The look Murphy shot his twin was dignified yet pleading--don't sacrifice yourself for me. Avenge me if you must, but don't die for me. You are everything to me. It was a look begging Connor to understand. I'm glad that they chose me, and NOT you. Better me because this world needs you. I never deserved you. I love you beyond measure, beyond words, beyond all comprehension. Everything ever said and unsaid in those few seconds.

The inhuman roars of his name that followed him down the four flights of stairs were unlike anything Murphy had ever heard come forth from his brother's mouth. Crazed, demonic even, the sounds of his heart and soul being ripped from his body. Even though he didn't utter a single sound himself, he acutely felt Connor's despair. The thought of never seeing his twin again, he couldn't bear it. He was beyond thankful that if Connor couldn't reach him in time that he was the one leaving this earthly plane first. That way, he'd never have to see the love of his life unmoving, that empty and mortal and beautiful shell void of everything that made up Connor.

Looking up into the sky, distracted by incongruous flashes of white against brilliant blue that matched Connor's eyes, Murphy witnessed that robe billowing behind his twin like seraph's wings. Murphy's own personal Archangel, wielding his deadly toilet of vengeance. That day he saw Connor fly and knew he'd be alright. That they would be alright, somehow both evading the grim clutches of death. Well, not somehow. It was all due to Connor, his eternal messiah, mere angel no more.

He believes absolute in their mission from upon high, but he believes in Connor most of all. Utter trust, blinding faith, shattering love ensure Murphy is forever more Connor's apostle. Has always been and always would be, even beyond their final breaths. Until that fateful day occurs--day, because there's not one living without the other--Murphy whispers Hallelujah on his lips, Hallelujah through Connor's heavenly hips. The youngest recognizes that he's seriously and hopelessly flawed, undeserving of Connor's perfection, yet his brother loves him so passionately, so unconditionally. Connor could have anyone, and that he's chosen Murphy is intimidating as all fuck, yet he ever strives to be worthy of the miracle that is Connor's rabid protection and adoration.

 

 

_Miracle 3_

 

 

Simply put, Connor's hands are divine. Talented instruments of God, as equally capable of bringing pain as they are pleasure. They are power, tenderness, steel strength sheathed in gilded, flawed skin that makes Murphy blasphemous, ready to sell his soul just to bask in their deadly beauty, idolatry not even a strong enough word to describe his level of devotion. Addiction, like each of those digits is comprised of his own personal street cut drug. No one else can save him. Never enough--never.

Murphy grew up with those hands touching him always--shoving, poking, prodding, teasing, tickling, soothing, comforting--until that day where they felt different. Electric, left index finger forever from that moment branded with Truth. Blue Veritas matching his Aequitas. Connor is his truth, the only truth he believes, the only truth he ever needs.

Murphy felt cursed as soon as he realized how sacred they truly were, making him silently swear and his pale skin hum. Fuck. Connor is Murphy's golden calf, as he readily forsakes the First Commandment by praising his golden twin as his singular redeemer. The youngest's never felt as alive, like he isn't a whole person, until Connor places his hands upon him. He's half of himself and only complete when his twin's fingers, palms, nails fill in the missing pieces of his body, soul, psyche.

Connor uses different hands for different purposes. Ambidextrous he is, because Connor can never do anything by halves. His left is his go to for pain, well-practiced trigger finger fatal and steady and never hesitating. Left fist breaking bones, crunching noses, bruising kidneys and jaws. Cruelly precise in bringing his brother to his knees in supplication and adulation, wringing writhing, ragged moans and groans from Murphy, the youngest unable to stop the desperate pleas for mercy falling from his lips like sacrilegious oaths. Connor takes him repeatedly to the feverish brink, left index finger stained with blue ink and invisible blood disappearing into Murphy again and again or left fist wrapped around him offering deliciously devastating friction, the tightrope of pain and pleasure so indistinguishable it scares him as much as it makes him soar too close to the sun.

Connor uses his right hand for his vices--swiftly lighting up another smoke, deftly spinning the bottle of whiskey before expertly topping off his shot glass, slapping Murph's skin in playful reprimand of drunken shenanigans. Murphy's always to his right, always, so the eldest's right hand is always touching, grabbing, adoring him. Palming the back of his brother's neck at the pub in brotherly affection, long, dexterous fingers twining softly and subtly in dark, silky strands. Grasping his twin's hip in a grip so bruising and so possessive and so right that Murphy swears his fidelity in the only mantras he can-- _fuck,_ _there,_ _yes,_ _Christ, fuck, Connor, harder, fuck, Jesus, yes, Conn_ \--as Connor thrusts, drives, slams into him. Fucking him into oblivion, into an Eden that is theirs and theirs alone, built upon unspeakable sin but one in which Murphy isn't the least bit sorry or guilty for creating. The sanctity of this love, this ecstasy is most certainly a gift from God--more than brothers, more than lovers, more than soulmates--and never to be taken for granted.

Those hands take him to a heaven more rapturous than the one promised by their Lord, the one he doesn't think he will be welcomed to when he dies. Because although he and his brother are doing their Father's work, his one true salvation has become Connor. And heaven is found in his brother's constant touch, his dazzling smile, the depth of pristine love in his flashing eyes, the feeling of him moving desperately and so assuredly inside him, worshiping his unworthy, sinful flesh. Fuck those two pearly gates guarded by Peter. Connor is his eternal kingdom and his virtuous hands the miraculous gateways to pure paradise.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
